The days stretched onward, quiet and heavy, as if time itself mourned with him.
Kuro now lived under the care of Elara—a woman well past her youth, with greying hair like ash and eyes that held more kindness than most. Though she was just a maid, she raised him with the warmth of a mother, tending to him not out of obligation, but as if he were her own lost child. The funds his father had left behind were modest but carefully calculated. They would last until the Awakening Ceremony, held when a child reached the age of ten.
Elara, with the patience born from decades of experience, systematically educated Kuro in the essential knowledge of clan protocols. During her occasional absences, she ensured he could manage independently, teaching him to prepare simple meals and attend to daily necessities with methodical precision. Her teachings were quiet, consistent, and practical—like stitching together a frayed soul, one day at a time.
But no lesson could soften the ache that gripped the boy when the world went still.
Each rest cycle, when the chiming bell echoed through the district, Kuro curled beneath his blanket and wept in silence. He didn't scream. He didn't call out. His grief came like a quiet flood, unbearable yet contained, and only the shadows bore witness. Though Elara inevitably discovered evidence of these private moments—dampened bedding, reddened eyes—Kuro refused to reveal this vulnerability in her presence. He never cried in her presence. He never let her see that side of him. He was calm. Quiet. Obedient. But inside, the boy was fracturing, piece by piece.
The emotional weight he carried was far too heavy. His father gone, his mother buried in screams, the silence of the house too wide to fill. And though Elara gave him her best, loved him in her way… no one could truly bridge the chasm left behind.
Initially, Elara attempted to breach this self-imposed emotional isolation. She would leave small comforts outside his door or speak gently of her own experiences with loss. But Kuro maintained his barriers, his pain becoming a private ritual—something almost sacred in its solitude.
His father had told him once—patience is the blade that cuts deepest. Rage could burn out, but patience… patience could reshape the world.
And so, Kuro waited.
After weeks of silent grieving, something within him began to shift.
He didn't wake up one morning miraculously healed—no, grief wasn't that kind. But in the stillness of those lonely cycles, as the bells marked time in a world without sun, he began to gather the pieces of himself. Slowly. Quietly. With the kind of determination that didn't need to be loud.
He remembered his father's voice—not the stern commands, but the steady calm beneath them. Training was never just about strength; it was survival. It was preparation for something worse. And Kuro understood now. His father wasn't just preparing him for the world. He was preparing him for this.
The food still tasted like ash. His hands still shook at night. The memory of his mother's death was a weight he carried in every breath. Her final scream. Her bleeding eyes. The horror carved into her face. It was all still there.
But now, there was something else, too.
A flicker of clarity.
A reason to keep breathing.
So, Kuro began to train.
Each day, he forced himself into motion. He ran laps around the frozen stone courtyard of his residence. The air bit into his lungs. The ground was hard and unforgiving. He slipped. He fell—his knees scraped, elbows bruised, fingers numb from the cold. But he rose again. And again.
At first, it was pitiful. The child collapsed more than he stood. But he never cried. Not this time. The tears were already spent in solitude. Now, he endured.
He was a silent one—observant, thoughtful, rarely speaking unless something truly piqued his curiosity.
While he lived under Elara's care, he often asked quiet questions—about the world, the clan, the ancient structures that towered like forgotten gods, or the reason behind the endless gloom that veiled the sky. His voice was soft, but his eyes carried a sharpness beyond his age.
Elara, ever patient, would do her best to answer. Sometimes she spun simple explanations, and other times, she shared old tales she'd once heard in passing. But more often than not, she didn't have the answers. The world had become too complex, too fractured for certainty. And as Kuro's questions deepened—about history, about purpose, about the strange bell cycles and myths of the lost sun and moon—she found herself falling short.
It pained her to see his growing thirst for knowledge go unmet.
So one day, after yet another question left her quietly defeated, Elara made a decision.
Elara placed a hand on Kuro's shoulder, her voice soft but steady.
"We'll go to the public archive tomorrow," she said. "I think it's time you started finding your own answers. I've told you all I know, but… there's a lot even I don't understand anymore."
"Besides," she added, "you ask too many damn questions. Better the books deal with you now."
Then, after a short pause, she reached out and gently patted his head.
His daily training continued. The movements felt repetitive, the drills exhausting. He couldn't see any obvious changes in himself, but he could feel something—his balance improving, his stamina lasting longer. Little things. Quiet things.
He helped Elara with the chores every day—fetching water, cleaning, whatever needed to be done. It became part of his rhythm.
One day, while helping her carry a bucket of water, he paused for a moment. The surface of the water inside the old wooden bucket rippled, then stilled. He looked down and saw his reflection.
Black hair, messy from training. Black eyes, tired but sharp. His face looked… normal. Just an average boy. Nothing about him stood out.
He stared for a moment longer. Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned and went back to helping Elara with the chores.